


Eyeteeth

by itachiscatears



Series: Naruto Smut Monday 2021 [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biting, Consensual Rough Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Fighting As Foreplay, M/M, Mention of rimming, Oral Sex, he protecc he attacc he eat a tobi snacc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:02:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29734986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itachiscatears/pseuds/itachiscatears
Summary: Senju Tobirama is inexplicably drawn to the insufferable Uchiha Madara. Try as he might to ignore him, Madara has a toothy hold on him.Or:Distance and exhaustion inspire a different sort of encounter between furtive lovers.
Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara
Series: Naruto Smut Monday 2021 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2185422
Comments: 5
Kudos: 83
Collections: Naruto Smut Monday 2021





	Eyeteeth

**Author's Note:**

> I have one (1) brain cell and an actual plot featuring these buffoons requires at least two (2), so this is just a bit of smut. 
> 
> Written for Naruto Smut Monday's February prompt "love bites" and inspired by [elhnrt](https://elhnrt.tumblr.com/)'s chompy Madara ([here](https://elhnrt.tumblr.com/post/639158259087015936/madatobi-sketch-dump-from-december-2020-i-have/), [here](https://elhnrt.tumblr.com/post/641626737507237888/mdtb/) and [here](https://elhnrt.tumblr.com/post/642244906861182976/mdtb-smooch-moments/)) ♥

Tobirama hardly looks up as a menacing presence ducks through the open window, armour clinking, and looms over him.

“I’m busy,” he clips.

Madara slams a hand down on either side of his head. The table shudders beneath the force, writing brushes skittering towards the edge. Tobirama straightens them before they can topple off and snaps, “If you act inappropriately towards me in public, I will shear your hair off when you least expect it.”

He is resolutely ignored. Madara whips his gunbai off his back and uses the end to force the door shut. An arm winds around Tobirama’s neck and yanks his head back; he instinctively avoids Madara’s eyes, scowling at his forehead.

A nose skims his temple, following the line of his jaw. Tobirama snaps his head to the side before their mouths can make contact.

“Don’t _,”_ he hisses. “Not only do you _stink_ —”

Teeth sink into his cheek. Tobirama glares at the tangle of dark, greasy hair in his peripheral vision. Madara finally pulls back and laves his tongue over the stinging bite, tracing the imprints left behind. Tobirama twists up and hurls him out the window.

Madara lands in a graceless crouch, flinging an arm out to catch his gunbai as it is sent sailing after him. Tobirama slams the window shutters down and returns to his chair, straightening the teaching reports on his desk. He heals his cheek as an afterthought; someone will inevitably pop up and demand to know why he has teeth marks on his face, he thinks irritably.

*

Madara is long gone when he lifts his head and cracks his straining neck, but Tobirama would not have received him any more enthusiastically. He organises his desk, muttering all the while to himself about having to come in on a Sunday. Hashirama is holed up in his own office when he searches out his chakra; undoubtedly bored to tears but seemingly working through his backlog.

Madara is hidden away in the Uchiha district, chakra pulsing gently in sleep. Tobirama hopes he had taken a very long, very thorough bath before collapsing.

*

It is just after ten. The afternoon and evening had dragged on far too long, his nieces and nephew demanding his attention as soon as he returned home from the Academy. He has a running list of tasks in the back of his mind: _Training at 05:00, meet his genin team at 07:00 to warm up and evaluate their progress, report to Hashirama at 09:00 for their first B-rank mission…_

 _I really shouldn’t_ , he thinks as he double-checks his mission pack. Madara will not take kindly to being woken and he is in need of rest himself.

He goes anyway.

The room is pitch black when he arrives at the marked wall, the storm shutters pulled down to chase out any light. He quashes his own instincts and goes limp as Madara bolts upright and attacks, forearm crushing his throat and forcing him to his knees. A blade scrapes his skin and is gone; they both still as a door snaps open down the corridor.

There is a tense moment as Izuna assesses the silent house. He calls suspiciously, “Big brother? What was that noise?”

“Nothing,” Madara replies hoarsely. “Your damn cat is being a nuisance.”

Tobirama makes himself scarce as Madara evicts one of Izuna’s dozens of cats from the room. Izuna calls it into his own room and returns to bed apparently none-the-wiser. They both remain silent, kneading chakra; when Madara is sure his brother will not be a problem, he shuts the door and activates the barrier seal painted on the inner frame. A weak buzzing fills their ears as Tobirama’s seal-work begins to glow, a faint orange light tinging the darkness.

Alone and unlikely to be discovered, Madara descends. “I was _sleeping_ ,” he hisses, pinning Tobirama face-first to the storage cupboard next to the marked wall.

“I can go,” he says dourly, cheek trapped to the door. He already knows that Madara won’t let him: the shock of adrenalin is already being channelled more constructively into yanking off his travelling cloak and groping his thigh under the guise of unclasping the pouch there.

He sees Madara’s arm arc blindly towards the futon. He says urgently, “Don’t—”

Glass shatters. Tobirama sighs shortly.

“—throw it.”

“Why the fuck would you put the oil in a glass bottle,” Madara says, pained.

“It might be salvageable.”

It is not, thanks to Madara’s reckless strength and lazy aim: glass clinks warningly when he lifts the pouch off the floor. He shuts his eyes, temper rising. _Why the fuck would you_ throw _the oil, never mind what kind of bottle it’s in!_

“You don’t have any on hand,” he grits out.

“Of course I don’t,” Madara hisses. “I’ve been gone for a month and before that _you_ were gone for a month.”

“Right.” He drops the pouch back to the floor and turns. “Goodbye.”

Madara slams him into the opposite wall. _“Where the fuck are you going,”_ he snarls.

Tobirama strikes him in the sternum. He grunts and adjusts his hold, hooking his arm around Tobirama’s neck as he is wont to do and yanking him back until he cannot move without injuring himself.

“You woke me up,” he says darkly, “and now I’m awake.”

“We’re not fucking without oil.”

“Send one of your little clones to get more.”

 _Little clones_ , as if Madara hadn’t stolen the technique as soon as Tobirama made the mistake of debuting it in the field.

“There’s no more.”

Madara breathes in deeply. “Impossible. You always have an extra of everything hidden away.”

“That _was_ my extra,” he hisses. “As you pointed out, _we haven’t seen each other in two months.”_

“If I didn’t know how disgustingly wet you like your dick to be, I’d think you were seeing someone else.”

Tobirama shuts his mouth before he can spit _maybe I was_. Stoking Madara’s temper does not seem presently wise. Perhaps tomorrow.

“There’s oil in the kitchen,” Madara says slowly.

Tobirama does not dignify him with a response. He frees himself from Madara’s slackening hold and seizes his travelling cloak off the floor, promptly blocking the next attempt to subdue him. Madara pauses and for the first time since they began this convoluted exchange, Tobirama underestimates him.

The world spins, black and orange whipping past his head as Madara flips him face-down onto the futon, pinning him in a chokehold. What feels like his entire weight traps him to the floor, crushing his lungs and straining his spine. He is forced to relax or risk injury; Madara makes a pleased noise and moves to straddle him, taking half of his weight on his own knees. Tobirama sucks in a few furious breaths as his traitorous body evaluates the situation and deems it acceptable, Madara’s smell and weight enticing memories of tactile pleasure to the forefront of his mind. _Familiar, good, gratifying._

Faintly chapped lips brush his ear; teeth scrape across the tattoo on his left cheek. Tobirama is nothing short of disgruntled to realise his resolve is slipping.

“I don’t have time for this,” he snaps. “I have a mission tomorrow.”

“You had time to fuck.”

“Against my better judgement.”

“You bathed,” Madara says low in his ear, rubbing a lock of damp hair between his fingers, “and packed your little fuck-kit and woke me up just to get my cock. Just think, we could have fucked this afternoon.”

“I was busy, you smelled and looked horrendous and we still didn’t have oil.”

Nails bite into his chin, forcing his head to the side as teeth close over his jawbone.

“Leave,” Madara says between careful bites, doing little more than indenting his teeth into burning skin, “or untie my pyjamas.”

There is no slack, but they both know Tobirama could easily escape if he wanted to. He has a multitude of techniques to disappear quickly, disregarding his own physical strength and dexterity. That he stays – allows Madara to throw him, pin him, manipulate his body for both pleasure and discomfort – is as empowering as it is shameful.

Madara knows better than to taunt him directly. Tobirama would destroy him.

He reaches up blindly for the tie of Madara’s sleeping robe, fumbling briefly to feel the edges of the knot. It comes undone with a few tugs; he holds the material aside as Madara shifts over him, arching naked hips into his flank. Not hard yet, but it won’t take much.

Madara lets go of his chin, sliding a rough palm down his chest and ripping his top open instead of taking the time to untie it. Blunt nails rake across his stomach; Tobirama fixes his limbs to keep from shuddering in pleasure, setting his jaw as a hand gropes between clothed thighs. He returns his hand to the futon, squeezing freshly-cleaned sheets. He can smell soap and new sweat; the odd, not unpleasant scent of Madara’s overwhelming amount of hair. It falls loosely over him, warming his cheek and pooling over his clenched right hand.

The arm around his neck relaxes and slides away; he undresses in the little space Madara allows him, calloused hands groping unhelpfully at every inch of skin uncovered. Both nude, Madara positions him more economically on his knees and forces his head down, cheek flush with the mattress. A warm chest covers his back and lips meet his neck, kissing his jugular open-mouthed.

The first bite threatens to break skin. Tobirama hisses wordlessly at him, though he expects – and receives – no recourse. Bruises are sucked into his skin; teeth nip and sink into muscle, imperfect impressions denoting Madara’s route. Usually relentless, if not violent, Madara marks him with rare languor.

 _He’ll regret it if he falls asleep on me_ , Tobirama thinks without heat, distracted by the fingers urging him to hardness. He grunts involuntarily as Madara’s indulgent strokes grow rougher.

“What?”

“It’s too dry.”

The hand retreats. He can hear Madara collecting saliva in his mouth, disgustingly.

“Saliva is not a lubricant.”

“It’s all we have. You could wait for me to come.”

“That is both repulsive,” Tobirama grits out, “and overly optimistic.”

Madara ignores him, spitting into his palm and fisting him roughly. Tobirama strikes out with his heel, making contact with something relatively firm before Madara snatches his ankle out of the air and uses the leverage to throw his legs open wider. His knee skids on the top-sheet hard enough to smart.

“ _Don’t_ move,” Madara mutters, tracing the line of Tobirama’s body with one reverent hand. It lingers on his ass and slides down to grab a fistful of his thigh, kneading the muscle. Fingertips ghost over his inner thigh, disturbing sparse hair. 

Madara adjusts the awkward position to smooth out his bunched spine and winds a hand around the front of his leg, palm unnaturally hot where it clamps down on his sensitive inner thigh. Lips trace a zig-zagging path down his spine, lingering on textured scars. Madara turns his cheek and lays it against the swell of his flank for a moment, right hand growing bolder. He lifts his head and spits once again into his palm before Tobirama can indicate his growing discomfort, smearing it around the over-sensitive head.

He can feel Madara’s breath on his thigh. He kisses clenched muscle and works his way up, oddly delicate. Tobirama braces himself and hisses out something vaguely threatening as vicious teeth sink into his left asscheek.

Madara unlocks his jaw only a few seconds later, peeling his teeth from throbbing flesh, but he does not stop to admire the imprints: he strikes again to the left of the first bite, holding this one for longer. He sucks it hard enough to leave a separate mark and moves on, biting and nipping until a sheen of rising bruises and cooling saliva covers Tobirama’s asscheek.

Tobirama is drifting, eyes pleasantly heavy. They are both too tired to be doing this, Madara’s energy waning even now as he gleefully ruins Tobirama’s sitting prospects, but there is nothing forced in his motions. His hand grips Tobirama with purpose, drier than he prefers but skilled: he varies his strokes, squeezing the head against his palm every so often the way Tobirama had unwittingly transferred to him during one of their first frenzied encounters.

Tobirama usually prefers frenzied. He does not like having to _think_ about what they are doing; he needn’t seek anyone out if he thought he would have to, but Madara had made it clear that there was no thinking required: there was just teeth, slick hands, strong thighs pinning him down or wrapped around his waist. Of course that does not account for all the ruminating that comes before and after.

“Hurry up,” he complains.

Madara, teething at the curve of his right asscheek, brings his hand down – hard – on his left. Tobirama flinches unwittingly from the shock and Madara stills – waiting for him to retaliate, he realises belatedly. He doesn’t; he breathes in too deeply and subtly angles himself closer. Madara’s hands are smaller than his – a fact that amuses him in his pettier moments – but his formidable grasp compensates for any perceived lacking: including how much or little of Tobirama’s ass fits in his palm. Fingers dig into rising bruises; a rough palm palpates the deepest bite. His hand comes down once, and again, and Tobirama grunts softly into the futon. The third is the hardest; his cock jumps. Madara breathes out audibly and clamps down on his right asscheek, teeth threatening to break skin. Perhaps they do, Tobirama thinks dizzily.

Madara pulls back, roughly unhanding his cock to reach up and drag his ass open, tongue swiping over his hole. Tobirama jolts; his eyes shoot open, an indignant noise flying to his lips, but Madara doesn’t linger more than a second longer: he flips him gracelessly onto his back and lays down between splayed thighs, taking Tobirama’s cock in his mouth.

Tobirama draws his knees up, spine arching at the overwhelming onslaught of sensations. Madara moves with him, menacing mane of hair pooling on Tobirama’s stomach. It hides his face and busy mouth from view, a single glittering eye visible every so often as the dipping of his head displaces the cascade.

Tobirama stares at the dim ceiling, breathing hard. His hands clench in the futon, itching to wind in dark hair and yank and _yank_. Fingers skim his thigh, pushing his knee back far enough to expose his ass. A thumb digs into the burning bite, nail scratching lightly over inflamed, hyper-sensitive skin. It sends a little shudder up his spine.

Madara flips his hair aside and leans up to focus on the head, spreading slick with the flat of his tongue. Tobirama clenches his eyes shut and folds his arms over his head, fingers locking together. He can feel Madara’s eyes on him: the thumb slips down and circles his hole, rough skin setting off every nerve in its path. He had prepared himself somewhat in advance but Madara does not try to breach without oil, applying increasing pressure with the pad of his thumb and letting up in turn. It is more intense than it should be; then again, that may be the heavy gaze on his face.

He finally reaches out to touch, tapping insistently at Madara’s cheek with his fingertips, and Madara lifts his head and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Wet enough for you?”

“No,” Tobirama croaks. Madara only smirks and climbs up his body, nuzzling his throat and jaw as he grasps him in a tight, slick fist. Tobirama’s face is burning; teeth close around the rounded part of his cheek, tugging gently. He comes a moment later, breath hissing from between gritted teeth.

A few minutes pass in limbo: they breathe together… Tobirama’s heart settles too quickly back into a normal rhythm… his skin cools… the throbbing bites on his ass become more conspicuous… weariness weighs down his veins. Madara eventually feels around with his free hand and wipes the semen from their skin with the shirt he ruined. 

He shifts off him and flops onto his back, one arm thrown over his head. Tobirama is unsure what is expected of him for a moment: eyes shut, face increasingly slack, Madara looks as if he intends to go to sleep.

He cracks an eye open when Tobirama is idle for too long. His expression is clear: _Get to it._

He begins to shift down to take Madara in his mouth, but a hand closes around his shoulder and tugs him back up. The kiss is barely a whisper, Madara too lazy to hold his head up, but Tobirama props himself up on a forearm and attempts to kiss back with some skill as he takes Madara in hand. Untouched, only half-hard.

The minutes stretch oddly before them, unending. Madara makes a small sound of pleasure and falls into what Tobirama can only describe as a meditative state, mouth moving placidly against his. His participation wanes gradually until he is not responding at all, breath deep. Tobirama blinks open tired eyes and finds him asleep. The shock and subsequent fading of adrenalin had probably not improved his exhaustion. 

Waking him a second time does not seem wise, Tobirama thinks distantly, but bringing him to orgasm while he sleeps seems strange – if not pointless.

He slows his hand, watching Madara’s face for signs of waking. Moderately confident, he disentangles himself and finds the small bucket Madara keeps in his room for these occasions. He fills it with water and soaks his ruined shirt to clean himself, soaking it again and ringing it out to take to Madara. He wakes only when Tobirama has finished washing him and is moving away, eyes snapping open and then squeezing shut as if the dim light is too much for him.

There is a beat of silence, then: “Did I come?” he slurs.

“No.”

He doesn’t appear to care, turning onto his side and dragging the covers up to his ribs. His next words are nearly incomprehensible, jumbled with sleep and muffled by his pillow: “Deactivate the seal if you leave.”

If.

Tobirama checks that Izuna is still in his room and cancels the barrier. A fat orange cat is stalking up and down outside Madara’s room; he lets it inside and gathers his chakra to flash home.

He scans the property as soon as he has his bearings. The two older children are sleeping in their room, the youngest with Mito. Hashirama is meditating in the garden beneath his beloved citrus tree, chakra unusually quiet. Tobirama considers checking on him and decides against it; Hashirama might complain about the lack of sleep and nod off at his desk, but he will still have more energy than most of their force in the morning.

He heals what he can reach of the bruises littering his body, changes into sleeping clothes and gets into his pre-arranged futon. For a moment he thinks he will not be able to sleep after all, mind skipping between the present, past and future, but his eyes grow heavy the longer his head rests.

It is probably just as well that Madara had ruined his plans, he thinks drowsily. He will still get a decent amount of sleep and the mostly pointless encounter _had_ relieved some of his tension.

Next time will be more thorough. Now that they are both home for the foreseeable future, they can resume semi-regular meetings – once he has stocked up on oil in Madara-proof containers.

He wonders then what Madara intended to _do_ after tossing the pouch safely aside, and falls asleep contemplating several pleasurable possibilities.

*

Tobirama stares thoughtfully at the sheared hair clutched in his fist. Hair is a powerful tool, depending on who you ask. Flesh, blood, bone, hair, saliva, urine, semen: it can all be used in one ritual or another. Why not a technique?

He seals it away in an unmarked scroll. Just in case.

**Author's Note:**

> Tobirama has the fattest ass in Konoha (hence the butt armour). RIP Madara - always in my prayers.


End file.
